


Solace

by Lucterna



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: F/M, Reader Insert, solace
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-12-10
Updated: 2014-03-03
Packaged: 2018-01-04 06:29:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,422
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1077700
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lucterna/pseuds/Lucterna
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A beautiful boy saves you from being kicked out of a hotel after you catch your fiance cheating.  Whirlwind ensues.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. One

**Author's Note:**

> Thought I would share this with everyone at AO3 :)   
> Originally posted on my 1D fan tumblr at xwritten-on-my-stonex.tumblr.com

"Ma’am… ma’am, you’re going to have to find somewhere else to stay if you can’t pay for a room." You jerk awake at the touch to your shoulder, groggy eyes traveling up to find the stern face of a hotel security guard. You don’t know how long you’ve been out, just that it feels like forever and moments all at once.

"Oh, I’m… I’m sorry," you say quickly, but it was a mistake to open your mouth; as soon as you suck in a breath just to speak there are tears pricking at the corners of your eyes.

The vivid image of your fiance, entwined with a complete stranger in the hotel bed, flashes violently behind your eyes. Just remembering is like a physical pain that radiates out from your heart to the rest of you in strangling pulses. For several seconds, you’re frozen, half to your feet with your hand clutching the single bag you’d managed to throw some things into. Did you tell the manager you were checking out? Yes, yes - well, you’d asked for another room, but found that the rest of the place was solidly booked until the day after next.

You desperately pull in another breath. “I’m sorry,” you mumble, though your words and the guard’s none too gentle insistence you find your way out are swallowed up in sudden commotion.

"Wait a second, sir," a young man comes jogging over. "Wait…" He’s beautiful, face etched in concern. When his so very green eyes slip over you, it’s more like someone checking on a lost child than checking out a potential lover. Like he’s trying to make sure all your parts are in the right place. "Did you forget?" he says, and his gaze is imploring, long fingers cupping your elbow.

Swallowing hard, and somewhat dumbfounded, you turn your teary eyes up to him. “For-forget?”

"Our room number," he teases, like you’ve been best friends forever. "Sweetheart…"

"Ah… I," it’s already clicked, but you’re not one hundred percent sure jumping into the unexpected charade is a good idea.

But the young man doesn’t wait anymore and that hand at your elbow becomes a gentle arm around your waist. “I’m terribly sorry, sir, my girl-” He glances back at you again, seems to notice something new and amends, “my fiance here, she’s awfully forgetful. So, you know, I’d appreciate it if you let her be; I’ll take her back to our room.”

This time the guard looks dumbfounded and if you could find anything funny at the moment his face would be it. But he doesn’t try to shoo you out anymore, rubbing the back of his neck and saying skeptically, “Well, all right, Mr. Styles. Um, congratulations.”

"Thank you very much, then," ‘Mr. Styles’ tells the guard and as you clutch at your duffel bag, he uses his grip around your middle to turn you away to walk with him. His voice lilts in a sing-song fashion, "I’m going to get into so much trouble for that one, love."

You’ve got the good sense to wait until the two of you are alone in the elevator to blurt, “Who are you?”

He looks familiar, like you should know who he is, but you don’t. Messy, dark hair is held away from his face with a black headband and you can see tattoos peeking out the collar and sleeves of his shirt. When he glances down at you, he’s grinning like an idiot. “You don’t know your own fiance?”

Startled, your cheeks color up in a combination of embarrassment and frustration. “Look, I… I guess, I appreciate what you did for me back there, but I- I’m not-” You’re really not sure where this is going? Is it some excuse to pick you up? You hadn’t taken off your engagement ring (yet) so it just doesn’t make much sense. Maybe you should have let the guard lead you out.

The young man holds up a finger to his lips, shaking his head. “I know you’re not, babe. I’m sorry.” He holds out one of his hands for you to shake. “My name is Harry Styles and yours would be?”

"Harry Styles?" you ask dumbly. Could it…?

"No, that’s already taken; it’s mine," he says, and his laugh is soft but probably the best sound you could have heard right now. "So, what’s your next choice?"

Still not sure about this bazarre turn of events, you stammer out your name, quickly followed by, “Are you really- well,  _that_  Harry Styles?”

Frowning, he glances down at himself, pretends to pick at his clothes and then smiles up at you. “As long as _that_  Harry Styles is a good thing, yeah, guess I am.”

"Wow." For a few moments your cheating fiance is completely forgotten.

"One Direction fan, then?" he wonders idly, shoving his hands into the pockets of a pair of black jeans that looks like it was poured on.

"Well, not exactly…" By now the two of you have reached the floor that Harry’s room must be on. He holds you off at the doors for a moment, taking a long peek down each side of the hallway and then ushering you out. You’d ask if he’s really taking you to his room, only the answer looks quite obvious.

Harry puts his fingers to his lips again and in silence the two of you pad across the garish hallway carpet and into a suite that you could only dream of staying in - it may as well be an apartment, boasting a living room and a bedroom, with a bathroom attached to the latter. All it’s missing is a kitchen - though there’s still a miniature refrigerator nearby. At the door, Harry takes off his shoes, stooping to untie them.

"So, not a fan, you said?" he wonders, encouraging you to pick up where you left off.

"Oh, uh…" You almost feel bad as you explain, "Well, my sister’s the real fan, you know? She buys the stuff and watches the things, but sometimes I listen too."

"Close enough," he chuckles. Straightening up, he sweeps an arm out to encompass the suite. "Make yourself at home."

"You can’t really mean you want me to stay here," you say, wide-eyed, your fingers still curled in a death grip around the handle of your bag.

"That’s just not true. I can, I am."

Gingerly, he moves past your stationary form to head over to the minifridge. You’re not sure you want to turn around. This is much too surreal for you to handle properly. You really probably shouldn’t be here and Harry really shouldn’t have told random yon security guard that you were his fiance and -

There it is again. You actually gasp a little and struggle to stem the new threat of tears as Harry’s form enters your vision again. He doesn’t ask why you’re crying again, not right away, instead pressing a glass of something into your hand, his own wrapping around yours until he’s sure you won’t drop it. Then he gently pries away your bag and carries it over to sit it by the long sofa that dominates one wall.

"C’mon now," he says, motioning you over too. He all but flops into the plush cushions, stretching out his long and slender legs to prop socked feet up on the coffee table.

There’s only water in the glass and you sip it nervously before giving in, though it does nothing to soothe the heat in your cheeks from the tears that’ve built up again. You settle onto the couch beside him, feet in the floor, hunched slightly over your lap.

"Tell me what happened," he prods gently and when you look over at him, the way his eyes hold right onto you is unnatural. Like you’re absolutely the only thing he sees, everything else fallen away until there is only your eyes and his.

You can’t stop the words from pouring out of your mouth. Back home, you’d just lost your job, and the trip was on business with your fiance - you’d been ecstatic the second he asked you to come along, as he was always flying off to points unknown - and maybe it would have been a nice vacation while you worked through the shock of being unemployed. But then you’d walked in on him and that other woman mere hours ago, tangled up in ways he’d never seemed so eager to be with you. You have to set your glass on the table when your hands begin to shake too much.

As you let out a little sob, Harry crowds close and you can feel his hand on your back, rubbing in little circles. His voice is so soft, close to your ear when he murmurs, “I’m so sorry, babe. That’s awful, what an awful man…”

"He wasn’t supposed to be-to be awful," you tell Harry, because he’s just so fucking genuine that it hurts. Why would he even give a damn about you? Why did he ask you up here? You’re not angry, just so hurt and confused that you can’t quite think straight. "We were going to get married in the spring."

Leaking eyes shut tight, you can only feel Harry’s hand slide along yours, fingering the gold band around your ring finger. The diamond isn’t much, but it’s real and the cut and the setting had been so perfect, what you’d always imagined a proper engagement ring looking like. The hand on your back reaches up to pet the hair from around your face.

"You shouldn’t marry someone like that," he says decsively, carefully returning your hand.

Still, he threads his fingers back through your hair, his touch so soothing. For a long while, you hide your face in your hands and he lets you cry. His hand is warm and reassuring along your back, through your hair again and when he thinks you’ve finished, he loops both arms around you and hugs you tightly. You almost push him away, but he holds you in a way that only makes you melt into his embrace. It’s okay, even easy, to sink into his arms and pretend that there is nothing wrong at all. In fact, it only hurts again when he’s let you go, to lean back and press your hair behind your ears.

"Now, I’m not very good at, um, laying down the law, you know. But tonight, you’ll stay here. One of m’mates will let me crash with them so you can have the whole thing to yourself. You know, watch anything you like or order all the room service," while he talks, he gesticulates outward as if things will begin magically appearing at his gesture.

"Oh, wow, gosh, H-Harry, I don’t think-"

You are instantly quieted when his fingertips touch your mouth. “No, none of that. I may have just told the whole world we’re engaged and unlike some fiances, mine won’t be sleeping in the lobby.” His lips are split in a cheeky grin and despite everything, you can’t help but giggle against his fingers.

He takes them away to allow you to speak again, “Well, okay, but… You don’t have to go anywhere. I’ll sleep right here and you can still sleep in your bed.”

Glancing doubtfully across the way, he says, “Innit it rude to let a lady sleep on the couch?”

Another laugh escapes you, and Harry seems to smile all the more brightly. “I won’t accuse you of being rude. It’s my choice.”

"Well, when the lady insists…"

When Harry finally saunters off to get changed for bed, you allow yourself a few seconds to relax and stretch all the way out on the couch. It’s still a bit like the room is spinning, too many awful and strange things happening at once, but at the same time, you couldn’t be more moved by Harry’s kindness. What other man, famous or not, would do something like this for a complete stranger?

The last thing you remember before sleep fully claims you is Harry draping a blanket over you, his fingers idly petting your hair one more time as he whispers, “Sleep sweet, babe.”


	2. Two

"Wake up, sleepy-head," an unfamiliar voice coos directly over your ear.

Instantly, you jerk up, knocking heads with whoever had been speaking to you. Both of you cry out in an equal amount of surprise and pain.

"Not gonna… be eggs the only thing scrambled this morning apparently."

Your eyes are actually watering when you realize what’s happened. Almost falling off the couch in your haste, you jump to your feet. “Harry, I’m so sorry, are you all right?”

He rubs on his head through hair crazily strewn about by sleep and squints at you, but decides after a moment, “I’ll live. But only if you calm down and have breakfast, alright?”

You catch yourself pouting at him - you haven’t been told to ‘calm down’ in a long time - and quickly press the expression into a neutral one. “What’s for breakfast?”

"Lots of stuff," he says, heading for the door to wheel back a covered cart. "Ta-da." He pulls off the silver dome to reveal a selection of fruits and bread and jam and even two tiny plates of scrambled eggs and sausage. "See?"

Chuckling softly, the two of you set about eating breakfast, which is a quiet but oddly companionable affair. You can’t really remember the last time you’d had such a peaceful meal with your fiance. Those thoughts are even more sour than you thought they would be - has he even noticed you’re gone? Given the lack of messages on your phone, you doubt it. Shouldn’t he have called and called or at least texted? Did he kick the unnamed woman out or let her stay when you didn’t seem to return?

You’re startled out of your morose questions when Harry pokes you gently in the shoulder. “You’re hurtin’ my head, thinking so hard.”

You glance over at him, but you can’t bring yourself to laugh and you don’t offer what had just clouded up your mind. Either way, Harry doesn’t press it, instead encouraging you to eat by showing you how he does it with gusto. So you make an effort to finish up what’s left of your half and pile the dishes neatly back onto the cart.

After a short silence, Harry says, “I want to offer you a job.”

Your head whips around hard enough to hurt for a second. “What?”

His eyes seem to search your face for something, but he patiently repeats himself, waiting for you to understand.

"Harry, I don’t think that’s a good idea." He’s already done himself enough damage claiming to a stranger - within earshot of other strangers - that the two of you were engaged. You’re still not sure how he’s going to get out of that one, at least not without rumors following the two of you around forever - you know how that stuff works. You were a teenage girl once, following the media behind your favorite band. "I mean, I’m… I’m so grateful for you letting me stay here for the night, but I should… I need to go home."

You need to, you know that, but you really don’t want to. Going home means collecting the last of your memories with a man you’d given several years of your life to only to have it thrown away on the first trip you’d ever taken together.

Running his hands back through his messy hair and then clapping them lightly on the skintight black pants he’s already squeezed into, Harry shakes his head. “I understand, you know. It’s a huge mess. But I mean it.” He considers you a moment, his very green eyes meeting yours, and he offers, “It doesn’t have to be permanent. Just for now.”

That brings up some unexpected, interesting thoughts. Ones that you’re sure would get you into heaps more trouble than you might already be in. Quickly, you stow them away. “I’m still not sure it’s a good idea.”

"I’ll clear up the misunderstanding about our relationship, you know."

You don’t know why he’s trying to convince you so much. But he seems determined to help you until you can’t be helped anymore. Would he come down to the room you shared with your fiance and help you get the rest of your things? Would he fly home with you, to the apartment you’d shared with this man for years, and help you clean that out too? And would any of that really help clear up the “misunderstanding” about your relationship? You are one hundred percent sure that it would only cement it for some prying eyes.

But how many times does something like this fall into your lap? Not a beautiful boy - whom you are just now reminding yourself is a few years younger than you - but just an immediate offer of work? The last time you’d been out of work, you had to move back in with your parents and spent the better portion of a year trying to find employment again.

Finally, deflating and leaning back against the sofa, you ask him, “What kind of work are you offering me?”

Harry looks startled, as if he hadn’t actually expected you to relent. “Um.”

"You mean you don’t know?!" You’re somewhere between amused and frustrated.

With a sheepish grin, Harry admits, “I hadn’t quite gotten that far… Just wanted to make sure you wouldn’t turn me down.”

Your eyebrows shoot up, but you don’t think about what else that could mean.

"How about, ah," he sinks back into the couch beside you, flinging his bare feet out to sit on the table by your empty dishes now. "Oh, you know, I could really use, like, a personal assistant." He lights up like a kid at Christmas come early, as if it’s the best idea he’s ever had.

"Personal… assistant?" you wonder, eyes gone a little wide. Yes, he’s insane. That’s officially the worst suggestion he could have made. "Harry, you - that’s -"

"It’s the best!" He sits up now, and startles a noise out of you when he flings his arm around your shoulders. "Look, it’ll work out, all right? People can’t speculate if you’re givin’ ‘em the answers, and I will. Well, I won’t tell ‘em anything you don’t want me to."

You’re not sure how you feel about him squeezing you to him, even if the gesture’s meant to be reassuring. How he can just throw himself around like you’ve been pals for ages is kind of astounding, and almost endearing. You find yourself relaxing without even thinking about it. Taking that for a positive answer, Harry’s hand rubs up and down your arm a little before he lets you go, like he’s realized he shouldn’t be holding onto you so much.

"Right, then," he says, wiggling around and then hopping up off the couch. "So, starting today, you’re my new assistant! But I’ll be nice and you can have the day off, while we get your things all sorted out and stuff."

You really have no idea what you’ve just gotten yourself into.


	3. Three

Later on that day, you’re eating lunch by yourself - Harry claimed he had something to do, so he’d run off about an hour ago - when your phone rings.

You’re so used to answering that particular ringtone that the phone is at your ear before you realize it. Wincing, you say, “Hey…?”

On the other end is a very familiar voice, demanding, “Where the hell have you been?! You didn’t come back to the room last night.”

Swiping your lips with your tongue nervously, you glance at the phone like he might come crawling out of the receiver. With a cough to clear your throat, you tell him, as bravely as you possibly can, “I didn’t think you wanted to be interrupted.” You weren’t going to roll over for him, not for this.

"Interu- What?" And you can just imagine him, the way he shakes his head, rolling his eyes when he doesn’t quite understand what you’re saying.

"I saw you, Jack, with… with that other woman," you tell him bluntly. You marvel at how steady your voie sounds when your insides are quivering harder than gelatin, your fingers icy with anxiety. "Yesterday, when… when I came back from the museum."

He’s absolutely silent on the other end for several seconds, before saying, “I don’t know what you’re talking.”

"Jack, I… don’t fucking lie to me," you say, your voice growing shaky as your nerves get the better of you. You don’t know if you’re going to scream or cry, maybe both, if he doesn’t just own up to it. "Don’t fucking lie, Jack, I saw you- I saw you fucking her."

He lets out a harsh laugh. “So, you just ran away? Nothing to say? Did you cry?”

For a moment, you’re stunned. That’s definitely not the reaction you were expecting. “J-Jack, what are you-“

"Oh, cut the shit, all right? I’m surprised you even admitted to seeing it."

"That- Jack, you-" Your voice is cracking and you just can’t stop, all the anger gone from before.

"Oh, so you’re going to cry now. Well, that’s just swell, look, why don’t you just get your ass back to our room so we can pack and get home."

"N-No, I’m not…" But the tears are still coming.

Before you can say anything else, your phone is snatched right out of your hand. You look up, startled, to find Harry standing by the couch. You hadn’t heard him return. When you try to protest, He presses one fingertip to your mouth and shakes his head. With heat rising in your cheeks, you can hear Jack calling out for you, but it’s Harry who answers.

"Yeah, um, Jack, is it? If you could just stay where you are, me and the lady’ll be down for her things." He frowns and you can hear yelling on the phone, enough that Harry’s expression deepens and he holds the phone away from his ear a bit. "Doesn’t really matter who I am, sir, just matters that this lovely woman has her things. What? Absolutely not. Look, we’ll be down in ten, just have it ready." Without any other ceremony, Harry swipes the button that ends the call and holds the phone back out to you. "I wouldn’t answer it if he calls back."

You’re just kind of gaping, cheeks still blazing red from Harry’s finger on your lips. “He’s… he just went nuts,” you say.

Harry peers down at you, that frown still on his face, though it’s colored now with concern. “He’s an asshole,” he says, very matter of factly. Carefully he reaches out and you don’t realize what he’s doing until his curled fingers swipe one of the tear tracks down the side of your face.

You swallow hard, glancing down and away, shame bubbling uncomfortably in your stomach. His touch lingers on your skin in a way you don’t dare think about.

"C’mon, love, let’s get your things," Harry says, his voice a quiet encouragement.

You almost tell him that you don’t want to go, you’re not ready to see Jack, and to really face up to your feelings. Maybe you can just leave whatever’s there and he can burn it or the hotel can just throw it out. But you know that’s not smart. So, while Harry very quietly keeps his hands to himself, you pick yourself up off the couch, freshen up in the bathroom - which, like most of the hotel room, is surprisingly tidy - and then show him down to the room you’d been staying in before.

Wisely, Harry alerts some personal security on the way down.

Jack is positively livid when he opens up the door, looking between you and Harry as if he’s the one who caught you cheating instead. He had such a handsome face, with his floppy black hair and too blue eyes, but it’s twisted up now into a person you don’t recognize. Funny how a space of heartbeats can change a person. The guard with you and Harry keeps him from doing too much, but Jack still calls you everything he can think of, he still accuses you of doing ever dirty thing he can think of to the boy following you around with clenched fists.

Harry’s eyes are so vivid when you look up to meet them, alight with a kind of fire that can only mean one of two things.

You hurry; the last thing he needs is to give into his chivalrous streak.

"How," Harry begins, when he’s slammed the door shut behind the two of you; his voice is gravel in his throat, "How could a man like that not have been awful the entire time?"

You feel chilled, clutching at the one thing Harry and the unnamed guard would let you carry. Peeking over at the singer, you see his knuckles are white around the handle of your suitcase. Quietly, almost defensive, you tell him, “He’s really never been like this before. Well, I-” You lick your lips, unaware that Harry’s eyes are on you like a hawk, “I knew he had a temper but he’s never- he’s never said anything- he never called me a-any of those names.”

You shudder, trying to shake it all off, but your eyes are still burning.

"I should have hit him," Harry says with feeling.

**

Days later, your hand still feels incredibly bare without your engagement ring. While you’re gathering toiletries out of your old bathroom, you pause to look at it, the space where the band had made an indent on your finger. You wonder what Jack’s done with it now. Of course, you could have kept it, maybe sold it, but in the end, you’d simply slipped it off and left it in the hotel room.

"Need any help in there?" drawls a familiar voice, stirring you out of your thoughts.

You peek up at Harry, feeling caught, and hurriedly shove your lady things into the bag. Whatever you can’t take with you will be going into a storage shed, but packing up and deciding what can and can’t go is harder than you thought. Swallowing, you shake your head. “No, no, I got everything.”

Harry gives you a smile, just enough to bring out a dimple. “Are you sure? I’m not rushin’ ya, babe, just want to make sure everything’s all right.”

You flush, uncertain why you feel so flustered, but his concern is as always endearing. “Well, I… thanks.”

He’d jumped on the chance to come help you with this tedious work, as if one fifth of the most popular boyband in the whole world didn’t have anything better to do. And you’d been sort of powerless to stop him. The help was nice anyway, and you were glad he wasn’t family or a close friend. Harry didn’t really press you about your feelings unless you started talking about them, whereas your family would be grilling you harder than a pair of angry cops.

"You’re welcome," he says, grinning a little wider.

You move around to step past him, bag in hand, but your foot catches on the shaggy rug by the sink. Before you can properly concuss yourself on the tile however, an arm goes around your front, and even though Harry falls on his ass and your knees hit the ground, both of you are okay. Your eyes meet Harry’s and there is something electric there, in his grasp still around the front of your body, his forearm just under your breasts. But then he laughs, this adorable little guffaw and you find yourself giggling with him.

"Thanks for, um, not letting me smash my head open," you say, shy, the moment passed but not forgotten.

Harry carefully unwinds his arm from around you, still chuckling. “I’ll take it out of your pay,” he teases.


	4. Four

When all is said and done, the media still has a field day with you and Harry. You’re pretty sure someone from higher up called and reamed him out over the phone as well, but while you were getting settled into your new occupation, he did whatever talking he needed to do to smooth it over.

You’re sure it’s not completely gone away though, no matter how many times he waves one of those huge hands at you and says, “It’s fine, absolutely fine.”

Your family wasn’t too keen on the drama either, but they were much easier to sort out than a tabloid magazine, especially when they found out that Harry only amounted to your employer, and possibly friend, but no more than that. And while your father had threatened to beat your cheating ex to within an inch of his life, you’d managed to calm that down too.

And now, officially, on paper and everything, you’re working for Harry Styles.

You just wish that when he told you “personal assistant”, that he hadn’t actually meant “babysitter.” Or maybe “person I drag around to do everything ever.”

Now, legitimately, you are getting paid for this, so it’s not one hundred percent the headache it could be and Harry is ridiculously pleasant to you so there’s that as well. Still, it’s weird and sometimes it’s just like you’re hanging out with him when he insists you come along for a meal out, or that you don’t hole yourself up in the hotel and go shopping with him.

Admittedly when you’re shopping with him, that’s when you feel the most like an assistant.

Or perhaps the better phrase is “coat rack,” you think, as Harry drapes another ridiculously expensive button down shirt over your arm.

He looks over his shoulder at you, “What do you think of that one?”

You blink, peering up at him. All in all, you actually look like a walking clothes rack; there are three shirts on your left arm, two now on the right, a ballcap that Harry claimed he was getting for Niall sitting backwards on top of your head and a scarf you didn’t have the heart to tell him was hideous hanging around your neck. “Um…”

He turns now, boots bumping your worn out sneakers, to regard you. “Be honest,” he prompts, but there’s this tiny little pout to his bottom lip.

You remind yourself not to think about his lips, dragging your eyes back to the shirt laying on your arm. It doesn’t look like anything special, if you’re being completely honest, but it is a nice shirt - very simple, black with black buttons, but there’s some intricating silver detailing embroidered on the collar and cuffs. “Well, I like it a lot better than the scarf,” you say aloud before you can help yourself.

"What’s wrong with the scarf?" Harry cries, pretending to be scandalized. His hands come darting out for the edges of it, and you step forward unconsciously in an effort not to get choked.

There is a very brief moment when the two of you are only inches from each other, his eyes meeting yours in that soulstripping way they do, and when you breathe in you can smell his cologne, the lingering scent of the shower he’d had just before the two of you came out to shop.

You force yourself back a step or two, trying to swat his hands away with your fabric laden arms. “There’s nothing wrong with it,” you tell him, face flushed and eyes on the ground. “If you like, get it.”

"But you think it’s bad," he says, voice grumbly with obvious pouting.

Admittedly, the scarf is incredibly soft, and when you think of the way it had slipped against your skin as his hands tugged at it, a shiver ripples through you. Mercifully, it’s hidden by all the other ridiculous clothing you’re draped in. But the fact still remains that it’s the worst shade of green you’ve ever laid eyes on and it ends in a fringe of multiple green hues that just don’t compliment it.

"It doesn’t matter what I think, you’re the one who wants it," you try again. You are not dressing Harry; your fiance- your ex, Jack, absolutely hated it when you had an opinion on his clothing. Some people buy their significant others ties or jackets, nice shoes; you had never once even looked at an article of clothing for Jack after a fiasco one birthday when you’d gotten him a shirt you thought would be perfect for work.

It was probably the biggest row the two of you had ever had, the purest example of his bad temper. You realize you haven’t thought about it in a long time and wonder if there are other instances you’ve packed away just like it.

"Uh, hello, babe, you still in there?" Harry waves a hand in front of your face and you start hard enough that you have to clutch all the clothing to you to keep it from falling.

"Yes, um, sorry, I was-"

"Thinking about something pretty hard," Harry finishes for you, lips pressing together in concern.

You really wish he’d stop that. Shaking your head, you tell him, “It’s nothing. And the scarf is… I mean it, if you want it, Harry, I’m not going to tell you not to get it.”

"Why is that?" he wonders, reaching for the item again, his fingers brushing up against your collar in way that tenses you up straight down to your toes. "I just want to know what you really think of it."

This isn’t going to end until you’ve told him, you realize, so you give in with a, “It’s… I’m sorry, I think it’s really ugly.” A waste of whatever ludicrous amount of money he might drop on it.

In a single motion, he’s curled his hand up in the scarf and slipped it off of you, the soft material catching once in the short hairs at the back of your neck so that you have to catch your breath. All over again the crimson bleeds into your cheeks. What in the world is wrong with you?

"Stay right here," he says, "I’m going to put this back."

***

He hasn’t yet told you when he’ll be meeting up with the rest of the band again, though he’d mentioned upcoming performances, a television appearance or two. It’s something you’re really nervous about, although there are many, many reasons you know you ought not be. Harry’s pleasant enough, and through him and time you’d spent with your sister, you have a good idea that the rest of the guys will be fine as well. There’s just this stigma of they are all talented and rich and famous and you’re feeling pathetic and inadequate in the wake of your relationship falling apart, not to mention your humble station in life before all this.

It’s a dumb thing that keeps you up sometimes, when you’re lying in the dark of your hotel room. Harry has his own suite a floor above you and he’d tried to convince you to get one there, but you had insisted on a more modest place to sleep. At least, you thought it would make you more comfortable.

Your phone begins to buzz before the sun’s even come up. It rouses you out of your half sleep and through bleary eyes you can see it’s Harry calling. Given the routine he’s kept since you started “working” for him, this is a strange time for him to be awake.

"What’s up?" you answer the phone, voice rough from sleep.

There’s a little, “mmm” on the other end of the phone, and defenseless as you are in this state it takes a lot to ignore it or the way it causes a shiver to snake through you. “What does a personal assistant do?” Harry asks through a yawn, voice more gravelly than usual.

"What?" you attempt to sit up now, pushing your body towards wakefulness. "I… shouldn’t you know?" you wonder, your voice evening out a little. "I mean-"

He cuts you off with, “Can they go get Starbucks and bring it to my room?”

Laughter bubbles up out of you before you can stop it. Clearing your throat you tell him, “I think that’s part of the job description, yeah. What do you need Starbucks at-” You pull your phone away to look at it for a moment, “almost six in the morning anyway? You didn’t tell me you had anything planned.”

He hums again, letting out a breath that has you imagining him curled up in his plush comforter, head thrown back on the pillows while he tries not to fall back to sleep. “I forgot to tell you I have a radio call-in this mornin’.”

"Harry," you say, voice coming out in a mixture of exasperation and unexpected affection. "I have to get dressed and find a Starbucks, so I might be a minute…"

"Just hurry," he whines.

An hour later, you’re sitting in Harry’s hotel suite, watching him lazily sip at his frappuccino, in nothing but the pair of poured on black jeans you’re used to seeing him in. He’s got his hair pulled away from his face in the usual way, half lidded eyes somewhere across the room while he taps idly on the huge butterfly tattoo just under his pectorals.

You are desperately looking anywhere but directly at him. On the one hand, people might argue that you just had an awful, utterly fucked and failed relationship, but you aren’t dead and Harry is gorgeous. On the other, they might tell you that you’re pretty trashy for this war your hormones are raging with your broken heart. You don’t know how much you care either way, but it’s enough to quash the weird flutters in your belly.

"Harry, why don’t you get dressed?" you finally suggested, when you see him shifting around in his seat to straighten up.

He glances down at himself, licking whipped cream away from his top lip, and then looks up at you. “Why? I’m just callin’ from here.”

"Um, right, yes, but, uh, you know, if you could." You force your eyes to his face.

The smirk that curls up the corners of his mouth is almost too much. Right, you should have kept your mouth shut. You feel too hot under your clothing, your face flaming as you jerk your eyes away from his.

"All right, all right. I’ll go find a t-shirt." 


End file.
